28. Wes

Wes

We winour second consecutive road game. But while everyone else piles onto the bus in high spirits, I just slouch in my seat, stare out the window, and wear what Blake has officially dubbed my Downer Donny frown.

I’m allowed to be down, though, because I still haven’t heard from Jamie. I don’t even know if he watched the interview— he hadn’t responded to the text I sent him after it aired. I covertly messaged both Cindy and Jess after Jamie’s radio silence, but they both answered that they “weren’t sure” if Jamie had seen it.

I wish I didn’t have to go back to Toronto tomorrow. All I want to do is hop on a plane to California and see Jamie, but I know management will kill me if I do. Frank told me this morning that my interview drew in a crazy amount of viewers. The team’s media department has been flooded with more interview requests, and Frank wants me in Toronto during this next stretch of home games. I need to be “available” in case he schedules any press conferences. I don’t see why that matters, because I don’t plan on talking to any more reporters, not unless it’s about hockey. My personal life is officially off the table for the foreseeable future.

“Knock it off, Donny.” Blake punches me in the shoulder, then proceeds to place his thumb and forefinger on either side of my mouth and literally turn my frown upside down.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“You should be. You’re bumming me out, and you know I’m not happy unless I’m happy.”

I stare at him. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Naw. I’ve said dumber.”

True. Luckily, my phone buzzes, sparing me from listening to whatever cheer-Wes-up speech he’s prepared. A glance at the screen shows an unfamiliar Boston number. I immediately regret being so gung-ho about the interruption. All my Boston friends are programmed into my phone, so I’m either dealing with a reporter who somehow got my number, or worse—someone who’s connected to my dad.

But I pick up anyway, because I’m tired of listening to the Downer Donny voice in my head. “Hello?” I say in a guarded tone.

“Is this Ryan?” The male voice sounds oddly familiar. A deep baritone with a comforting rasp to it. Shit, where do I know that voice from?

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Well, hot damn, kiddo. You haven’t changed your number after all these years? I can’t believe I actually reached you.”

My forehead wrinkles. “Who—” I stop suddenly, a wave of nostalgia washing over me. Kiddo. Lately, only Jamie’s mom calls me kiddo. But before that, I used to hear it from… “Reggie?” I say in shock. “Is that you?”

“Yesiree. It’s good to hear your voice, Ryan. Been a long time.”

Since I graduated from high school, I realize. Reggie retired when I was in my senior year. “Too long,” I say gruffly. “How’ve you been?”

“I’m great. Loving retirement. But I didn’t call to talk about me.” He pauses. “I saw your interview on TV.” Another pause. “He didn’t give me a dime.”

I swallow. “What?”

“Your old man. You said you wondered if he slipped me some cash to cheer for you at the games. He didn’t.” Reggie’s tone is impossibly gentle. “Almost got fired for that, actually.”

I’m hit with another jolt of shock. “What do you mean?”

He makes a disgusted noise. “Drivers are s’posed to wait in the car. The first game of yours I watched, I mentioned to your old man afterward how well you’d played. He threatened to can me if I ever left the car again.”

Of course he had. My father is a grade-A asshole. “But…” I frown to myself. From the corner of my eye, I see Blake listening intently to my side of the conversation. He’s not even trying to be sneaky about it. “But you kept coming to the games.”

Reggie chuckles. “Nobody ever said I was smart, kiddo. But I figured, how was the old man gonna know? I sure as heck wasn’t gonna mention it again. And you never did either, so…”

Something inside me cracks, flooding my chest with emotion. This man had faced my father’s wrath—had put his job on the line—just to watch me play hockey?

“Never been prouder, watching you on the ice,” he continues. “I just wanted you to know that. Didn’t want you thinking I got paid to do it, or that it was a chore for me, because I didn’t, and it wasn’t.”

My throat closes up. “Oh. Okay.”

“I watched your college games too, whenever they were televised. And this season? Jeez, kiddo, you’re setting records left and right.” His voice is gruff. “I’m damn proud of you.”

Oh hell. I might actually cry. On the bus. In front of all my teammates and my coach.

I blink rapidly, trying to stop the tears from spilling over. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re a good kid, Ryan. Always have been.” I can almost see the crooked smile on Reggie’s wrinkled face. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, you hear me? Forget the old man. Forget the critics and the nosy busybodies. You live your life the way you want to live it, and you keep doing what you’re doing. And know that you’ve always got people in your corner, people who give a shit about you.”

I blink some more. “Thank you,” I say again.

“Nice win tonight,” he adds, and then he disconnects the call.

My hand shakes as I set my phone on my thigh. Blake peers curiously at me. “Who was that?”

“An old friend.” My throat is so tight I don’t know how I manage to answer. “He was just calling to say hello.”

Blake nods fervently. “Blast from the past, huh? Those are awesome. Well, not always. Sometimes they suck. You know who called me out of the blue last week? This douchebag I knew in high school—know what he wanted? For me to bang his girlfriend.”

I’d been fully prepared to tune Blake out. Until I heard that. “Are you serious?” I gape at him.

“Serious as leprosy.” Blake gives me a disbelieving look. “Turns out this chick’s dream was to bone a pro hockey player, and the douchebag thought it would be a nice birthday present for her.”

“Wow.” I suddenly narrow my eyes. “Fucking hell. Please don’t tell me you said yes.”

Blake just grins.

I groan. Loudly. “You are a sick, sick man, Blake Riley.”

The grin collapses as he breaks out in laughter. “Aw, relax. Of course I didn’t say yes. I’m not that much of a slut.”

“Bullshit,” Eriksson’s voice wafts over from across the aisle. I guess I wasn’t the only one enthralled by Blake’s blast from the past. “You’re a dog, Riley.”

“Woof!” Blake calls back.

Eriksson howls in return, which makes Forsberg join in, and then half my teammates are howling like a bunch of idiots until Coach Hal finally rises from his seat and says, “Shut the fuck up, dumbasses.” He sinks back down, and I hear him muttering to our defensive coordinator, “It’s like dealing with children.”

I choke down a laugh. Yeah, I suppose he’s right. We are children. Overgrown, testosterone-filled children.

I’m still in surprisingly good humor when the bus finally pulls up to the hotel where we’re staying. I thank the driver and follow Blake down the steps, already loosening my tie as my dress shoes hit the pavement. Frank won’t like it that I’m slobbing up before I'm in the privacy of my room, but I don’t give a flying fuck what Frank—

Crap. Maybe I do care. There are half a dozen reporters in the lobby. Cameras flash and a couple of microphones get shoved under my nose. I stifle a groan. I’m not in the mood to talk to the press, and I inwardly curse Frank for not warning me that last night’s interview would summon the media to swarm our hotel.

Of course, they don’t ask a single question about tonight’s game. Eriksson and Blake shoot me sympathetic looks as one of the reporters harasses me about my “gay relationship”. I’m seconds away from snapping that a relationship is a relationship and he doesn’t need to qualify it with “gay”, but I suddenly feel Blake’s hand on my shoulder.

“Bar,” he murmurs.

I clench my teeth. Screw that. I don’t need a drink right now. I just need to disappear upstairs.

Shaking my head, I mutter, “I don’t feel like drinking—”

Blake cuts me off and says, “Bar.” Firmer this time.

With a frown, I shift my gaze toward the bar area in the lobby, and my heart soars and plummets simultaneously.

Jamie.

Jamie is here.

He’s seated at a table near the counter, his brown eyes searching the crowd until they lock with mine. My heart somersaults before landing in my throat.

What is he doing here? And how the hell am I going to get to him without giving the press a photo op that will no doubt embarrass us both?

I’m torn between sprinting toward him and texting him to meet me upstairs, but Jamie takes the decision out of my hands. As I watch wide-eyed, he gracefully rises from his chair and makes his way toward me. His long stride eats up the marble floor beneath his sneakers. His blond hair ruffles as he rakes one hand through it. He’s holding something in his other hand. I squint. Fuck me. It’s the box. Or rather, it’s a box. Not the one that exchanged hands multiple times last summer, but close enough.

I stare at him, wondering what this means, wondering why he’s not in California, why he flew all the way to Dallas—

Shit. The vultures have smelled blood.

Several curious heads turn in Jamie’s direction as he crosses the massive lobby. A flashbulb goes off, but still, he doesn’t stop. He keeps me trapped in a serious stare and erases the distance between us, and then he’s in front of me, those brown eyes twinkling playfully as he leans closer and—

Kisses me.

Panic and joy streak inside me as his lips briefly touch mine. There’s no tongue. No overt passion. But when he eases back, the desire in his expression is impossible to miss. Jesus. I hope the cameras didn’t capture that lust-filled glint, but Jamie seems completely oblivious to the proverbial spotlight that’s narrowed in on us.

“Hey,” he says softly.

I miraculously find my voice. “Hey. What…what are you doing here?” Beside me, Blake is grinning so widely I’m surprised his face doesn’t crack in half.

“Can we, uh, talk privately?” Jamie’s head swivels as he finally notices all the people staring at us.

“Of c-course,” I stutter.

Blake clamps a hand on my shoulder. “There’s another set of elevators back there.” He tips his big head toward the distant end of the bar.

Jamie doesn’t waste any time. He grabs my hand and tugs me in that direction.

I follow, and we weave around high tables until the elevator doors appear. His hand feels so good around mine that I forget to push one of the buttons until he gives my fingers a squeeze. “You gonna tell me the floor number?”

“Uh, nine. I’m pretty sure.” We stayed here one night already, but when you visit as many hotels as I do, it’s hard to keep track. I fumble into my jacket pocket for the key card.

Jamie grins and punches the button.